Grantaire remembers who he had been before. He remembers the boy – a voracious reader; sharp tongued; caustic but not corrupt. The watcher. The doubter. He remembers.
He remembers black marks in his book – they had given him fair warning.
Seventeen had come upon him all too quickly, he felt. His birthday, and the day of his Rebirth. The masters came for him and when he awoke, it was to a different life. One, they said, that he deserved.
"You chose this path," they said, grim smiles on their old faces.
He knows it is true. That is the way of the world. Seventeen years – that is the time you have in which to prove yourself; the time to show that you are pure and brilliant and unfailing. Then you are Reborn, to a life you deserve – given a whole new identity; a new place in the world.
If seventeen is when one becomes the person one is supposed to be, what then were all the years before? Who were you then? What do those years matter, in the end?
The new Grantaire has dull, lank hair and heavy-lidded eyes. His skin is coarse and blotched. He is rangy and unkempt, with a large nose, large hands and large feet. Everything about him is stringy and ungainly.
New Grantaire does not have much money. The seminary spat him out into Whitechapel, and that is where he lives now.
He has the life he deserves, clouded with opium smoke which obliterates the past and sends, instead, dizzying spires of an impossible future, rising up before him. He forgets what the other Grantaire, the laughing pre-seventeen boy, had been like at all. He forgets his books and his paintings and his late night ramblings in the seminary grounds.
When he wakes, and remembers, it makes his head hurt. It is a peculiar thing. He had longed, in his cloistered life at the seminary, to do as he pleased. Now that distant life seems to offer a boundless and untouchable freedom that makes him ache.
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"O Father let your light guide us on
Please help us carry your will
Though the way may be steep and the path overgrown
We won't falter, we'll carry on still..."
In an altogether very different part of London, the girls of Miss Pickering's Seminary stand in neat rows, singing. Miss Pickering, a grey rod of a woman, conducts them, pale hands rising and falling in dramatic arcs. By the windows of the little chapel, thousands of dust-motes eddy and swirl.
Her lips moving automatically along with the others, Enjolras watches the steady downward float of the dust-motes and ponders her seventeenth birthday, which is two days from now.
She does not dwell on the physical particulars of the life they will give to her (will her Reborn self be dark or fair? Regal or diminutive?). What concerns her is that she knows they will give her a good life, and she does not feel she deserves it any more than the next person. Who are the masters, in any case, to decide what one deserves?
She knows they will give her a good life, but of what, precisely, it will be like, she has no notion. This life at the seminary is the only one she has known.
The masters are advocates of God's will, everyone says. How, precisely, does that work? They are not prophets. They do not carry, directly, the word of the Lord. How, then, are they to know His will? It does not quite hang together, but Enjolras has too much common sense to make a terrible fuss about it, for the most part.
The singing stops. A hush, pre-emptive and sudden, falls.
Then Miss Pickering begins to speak.
She talks about a time before Rebirth – a time before all men and women were born equal. Some were born paupers; some were born into affluence. Some were loved and some, abhorred. Some were born beautiful and others, plain. And none had any choice in the matter; none had done anything particular to deserve their lot in life. What an unfair, unjust world! See, girls, how much better it is, now that you can have the life you deserve!
Hands clasped neatly behind her ramrod-straight back, Enjolras listens.
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In the courtyard, the girls in their grey dresses walk in a sedate line.
"You must be so very excited!" little Everault says. Everault comes directly after Enjolras on the register, and so walks just beside her. "Do you think you shall get to live in a big house?"
Enjolras shrugs. The idea of some palatial manor does not interest her. "If I live in the boxiest cottage in England, it shan't matter," she replies, "I will be out in the world, finally. I'll be able to make a difference."
"What will you do?"
"Whatever my future permits me." That, of course, is the problem. If, for instance, the path chosen for her is of marriage to some Earl or Viscount, her prospects will be very limited. A Lady has precious little wherewithal to effect change.
A brisk October wind blows strands of her fine, pale hair back into her face. She pushes them back behind her ears impatiently. Everault's dark braids pendulum rhythmically with the bounce in her step.
They go to their lessons. Needlework. Enjolras cannot stand the tedium of it.
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Be kind. Be good. Be humble and loving and caring. Be contrite. Be useful. Be thoughtful and selfless. Be upright. Give yourself willingly to the Lord and to others. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Know your place. Help others.
These precepts govern your future. These precepts, and how well you abide by them, decide the life you will have when you leave the seminary.
Sing, and smile, but be wary. Be cautious. Do not throw your life away. Do not be a child, though that is what you are.
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For each of Miss Pickering's girls, there is a duty; a task she must complete each day. Among these is the sought-after job of Lightkeeper.
The Lightkeeper does not do much. She lights the lamps as dark draws in, and extinguishes them before bed. She is usually given this job after she has proved herself in other ways.
This year, the Lightkeeper is a girl named Combeferre. Bespectacled, ball-jointed and scrawny, one might say she is much in need of a decent Rebirth. She has large, pale eyes and a wiry snarl of brown curls. She moves quietly, like a sly forest creature. That is good – the Lightkeeper ought not to be obtrusive; she ought not to make much noise.
The seminary's corridors are long, narrow and as grey as the rest of the building. Austere and, at this time of year, bitterly cold. The Lightkeeper draws her long, blue coat more tightly around her. It is a second-hand coat; one of the buttons is missing.
She strikes a match; lights a lamp in its heavy black bracket; moves on.
Usually, she is quick about her duties. She does not pause for long in any one place. But tonight, she stops outside Miss Pickering's rooms, because she hears a name she recognises. It is the name of her friend. Enjolras.
"-grow up to be far more trouble than she is worth, and yet she has not, directly, flouted the Moral Code on enough occasions to warrant black marks against her. What I suggest, Miss Pickering, is that you permit us to make Miss Enjolras one of our own."
For two reasons, the Lightkeeper stops perfectly still. The first reason is that this voice – a man's voice, and there are never any men at the seminary, save the gardener, Alf – must belong to one of the masters. The second reason is that although she is not entirely sure what, exactly, the master is saying, she is certain that it cannot bode well for Enjolras.
"But the risk, sir -"
"The risk of such a...thorough transformation is high, I am well aware, Miss Pickering. However, we feel that in this case, it is necessary. You said yourself that the girl is full of curious and untoward ideas. If we do not nip them in the bud while we can, she may become troublesome, later."
"Later," Miss Pickering rejoins in such a tart voice that Combeferre can imagine her pursing her wrinkled lips, "She will not be any of our concern."
There is a brief, chilly pause. Combeferre's heart thuds against her ribs.
"Not your concern, no," says the master, so quietly that she has to strain to hear him, "But the Magistry's concern. If the Magister himself – well, suffice it to say, Madam, that you do not want him questioning your practices."
Miss Pickering's sharp intake of breath is perfectly audible.
"You needn't worry, Madam," the master's voice has changed again; resumed its unctuous quality. "It will be a complete Rebirth – nothing like the sort of thing we usually administer, you understand. She will remember only the facts of her old life; none of the ideas or feelings. She will be devoted entirely to us and, by extension, to the will of our Lord. She will have gone from being a minor nuisance to being the perfect instrument. Do you see?"
Combeferre does not wait to find out whether or not Miss Pickering sees – in any case, her misgivings could never overrule the orders of the Magistry. Slipping the matchbox into a deep coat pocket, she abandons the lighting of the lamps and hastens back down the corridor, the way she had come. Her hands, balled up tight in the too-long sleeves of the blue coat, are cold and clammy. A dull dread writhes in the pit of her stomach.
Enjolras. A nuisance. Enjolras. An instrument. Enjolras – one of them.
The other girl's birthday is two days from now.
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Enjolras, by some small mercy, is alone when Combeferre re-enters the dormitory. She sits on her bed, unmindful of the uncomfortable iron bedpost against which she is leaning. A book rests in her lap, but presently, she is not looking at it. Her gaze, at once intent and abstracted, tells Combeferre that she is thinking.
"They mean to make you like them," she shatters the older girl's reverie without preamble, "I heard one of the masters talking to Miss Pickering. They think you might cause trouble."
Enjolras sets aside her book. Her face does not register surprise, but something in her expression hardens. In the light from the tapers, her whole form burns fierce gold.
"Well," she says, "There it is, then, I suppose. I'll leave tonight – you can say you knew nothing about it. There's no sense in you getting a black mark to your name because of me."
She is brisk; matter-of-fact. The light in her eyes, harsh and glad and dreadful, tells a different story entirely.
"Don't be absurd," says Combeferre, flatly, "I'm coming with you."
Enjolras lets out a soft, hoarse laugh. "And if you're killed? Which you might very well be."
Combeferre meets her gaze, levelly. "You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same for me."
And this, of course, is true, so Enjolras can say nothing about it. She stands, and holds out a hand.
"Matches," she says, "Give them here."
"What are you going to - ? Enjolras, you can't."
"Only the outhouse," responds Enjolras with a touch of impatience, "I'm sure no one will be hurt. It's a means to an end. We'll never get out of the grounds, otherwise."
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It is little Everault who sees them go. The blaze in the outhouse has not yet been doused when she runs on short, stubby legs up to Miss Pickering in her woollen dressing gown.
"They're gone, Miss!" she shrieks, "Enjolras and the girl who does the lamps! They've run off!"
Miss Pickering's face turns the colour of old porridge.
"Master Denby has taken rooms with us," she raps out to a servant girl, ignoring the plaintive child, "Have him informed immediately. In the meantime, find Alf and have him go for the Sweepers. They will find them."
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The Sweepers come with their black coats and their grim faces. They ride black horses, and their boots, too, are black. There are four of them, just now – not many are needed.
The Sweepers. The police. Frequent enforcers of law in Whitechapel and at the docks, but not here; never here. This is a respectable part of the city.
The young ladies hover in strained silence whilst Miss Pickering gives the orders. Two girls have escaped – one will be fair-skinned and fair-haired; the other plain and darker. One will wear a blue coat. These miscreants must be found and dealt with.
Dealt with.
Nobody in the vicinity has any doubt of what this means. They know how it is that the Sweepers deal with pre-Rebirth escapees.
It will not be a pleasant end for either of those girls. Let that be a lesson to you all.
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Enjolras and Combeferre have not gone far when the Sweepers corner them. It is too late to run.
It is Enjolras who stops first. She stands very still, straight-backed, chin tilted upwards. No one could mistake this for a white flag of submission. She knows that she has been beaten, but she has no intention of making this easy for the men.
Silently, the Sweepers dismount from their horses.
Enjolras stands her ground as they draw nearer, her face impassive. Combeferre, too, remains where she is. They had halted at the mouth of an alleyway, and now they are backed into it, away from the wan glow of life that is the main street late at night. Nobody about, anyway.
There are no reprimands. No warnings. No words at all. Only the grasping of hands and the flying of fists and feet. Enjolras struggles with every ounce of strength she has. She twists and jabs and yanks at hunks of hair, to no avail. Because then one of the men is pinioning her arms behind her and another lands a kick to her stomach that sends her doubling over, retching. She is pushed to the ground amid a volley of more kicks. The world rattles and rocks. And she aches, too, for Combeferre; through the fall of her hair she watches the other girl slammed, repeatedly, against a damp brick wall. That is the worst of it: she cannot help her, and Combeferre cannot hold her ground. Seeing quiet, level-headed Combeferre forced to the ground, whimpering incoherently, is worse than any physical pain. The thought that she will have died for Enjolras – Enjolras cannot shake off the feeling that it ought to be the other way around; that it ought to be she, sacrificing herself.
What does it matter, in the end? They are both going to die here, in this filthy side-street.
One of the men is laughing. It's a cold, shrill sound. Something – a boot? - connects with Enjolras' kneecap and she lets out a garbled scream.
Combeferre's face is bloody. She lies curled on her side. One of the Sweepers nudges her with a booted foot so that she rolls limply onto her back. She lies there without moving.
Enjolras tastes something bitter and salty at the back of her throat.
And for her, the blows go on. Wave after wave after wave of pain, and all the while, she keeps her eyes open, fixed on the still body of the girl who would not let her die alone.
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Grantaire, for the very purpose of keeping away from the Sweepers, travels by side-streets and back-alleys. He holds in his mind a rabbit-warren map of the places he can and cannot go.
This street has no name, and is not one that he visits often. It happens to provide the quickest shortcut between Blockwell Street and Bloom Street, and that is the only reason why he is here.
Dawn has not long broken. The sky is lucent and pearl-coloured. This is a London still raising its arms above its head and stretching its aching body. Grantaire, who rarely sees the city at this hour, is enjoying the relative quiet. You might almost convince yourself, now, that the city is not an enemy.
Then you round the corner, and are met with the sight of what at first appear to be two corpses.
Grantaire comes to a halt so sharply that he almost stumbles. They are girls. Younger, probably, than him. One is dark-haired, the other very fair. The fair one lies on her side with one arm flung out. It gives Grantaire the awful feeling that she's reaching for him.
Then her eyes blink slowly open.
They are blue – a flat, bright and frosty blue. But they're unfocused and there is desperation in them, perhaps, or at least something approaching it. She stares at him with what seems to be a peculiar mixture of hopelessness and defiance, that seems to demand everything from him.
He goes to her. When he tries, gently, to move her, her muscles buckle into rigidity and she lets out a low groan. Grantaire looks down at her – she has a regal sort of face, with a high forehead, sharp cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. But it's a battered face – the skin purpled and broken. Her right eye is a slit.
Grantaire does not lie to spare people's feelings, and yet:
"It will be alright," he tells the stranger, "You will be alright."